Black Mask (Vol. 22, No. 2 — Mary 1939)

“Our entire country is infested with spies. Understand, I am not saying or even suggesting that our government is not able to meet the situation. In case of war tomorrow we could place our hands on thousands who believe themselves unknown to our government. But today — well, in this country there is a man of unlimited resources. He poses, in an unofficial capacity, of course, as a good will ambassador without portfolio. Unlike other foreigners, he praises our citizens, our government, speaks of a strong friendship between his country and ours, lends every effort publically to cement that friendship. Yet he is the most dangerous man in the country today. He, and he alone, controls the greatest spy system that has been inflicted upon any country. There is no proof, no actual evidence — just knowledge.”

The stout, white haired man cut in: “And if there was proof, the government could do nothing. The international complications would be too grave. The government recognizes this. The President himself is thoroughly informed. But if the government cannot act openly in an official capacity, it can act in an unofficial one. Certain sums of money which may be used without permission or knowledge of Congress have been turned over to us to investigate certain activities.”

He walked forward now and pounded a stubby finger against Clay’s chest. “At least five great plane and train disasters, not including today’s, we have already laid to his door. A great number of our agents, private men employed by the judge and myself, have met violent deaths, been brutally murdered, or disappeared entirely.”

The man called the Judge said: “Why quibble, Carlton? Let Mr. Holt know the truth and know what we expect of him and what he will be glad to do as a patriotic American. Now Mr. Holt, Carlton Wilburt and I...”

He was still talking, but Clay didn’t get it all. He recognized the stout man now. If that name gave him a shock, it also gave him a confidence, too. He was dealing with men very high up.

The Judge was saying, “So up until we thought of you, Mr. Wilburt and I never knew who each one of us hired. I would engage someone for the work, and so would he. His people would report to him, mine to me. We could not, therefore, through lost notes, memorandums, telephone conversations, or even through mistakes, ever blame anyone but ourselves. With you it was different. We knew that this head spy gave orders and many people died. We knew that we hired people and they disappeared. We decided on a great responsibility. And that’s why we sent for you.”

Clay said, “Just what do you want me to do?”

“We want you,” the Judge leaned forward, “to remove this man.”

Clay Holt’s face grew hard. “You mean murder — is that correct?”

“Murder... murder.” The Judge’s voice was hesitant for a second, then a flow of words came. “This man has been responsible for the death of hundreds of people. He has bought, killed, tortured, threatened, and, yes, taken the lives of children to get what he wanted from government employers. He has wormed his way into the confidence of some of our most influential people, stolen or caused to be stolen the most priceless secrets for national defense — plans and formulas and diagrams that will be used — are being used — to snuff out the lives of innocent women and children abroad and perhaps will be used for that same purpose here. And you call it murder?”

Clay said, “You haven’t answered my question, Judge. You want me to shoot him to death?”

The fat man answered: “You know, of course, Mr. Holt, that this man has thousands of eyes, thousands of hands, thousands of men who will kill you, once you are suspected of working against this unscrupulous murderer. You can expect no help from the government, and none from us if you find yourself in trouble. When you leave here you will be on your own.” He smiled. “It is possible that the blowing up of the plane was a simple coincidence.”

Clay shook his head. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The Judge said. “You are given a great opportunity as a citizen, Mr. Holt.”

Clay Holt cut in sharply. “I don’t need any flag waving, Judge. There was no suicide clause in my birth certificate.” The Judge said slowly, “A dozen more people killed like that! Mangled bodies, burning wreckage — the men I have sent straight to their deaths. I understand your refusal. He suspects you now and fears you—”

“You misunderstand, Judge,” Clay said. “You can deal me in. In fact, I wouldn’t miss it at any — a fair price.” And, with a shrug of his shoulders, “If I have to defend my life — well, we may embarrass this wholesale slaughter of yours no end.”

Carlton Wilburt said doubtfully: “This man knows who you are, Mr. Holt. Perhaps it might be better if you were to hide for a while.”